


love, we're going home now

by mirabilis



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thieves, Barnes is here spiritually, Getting Together, Heist fic, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The Adlers make a cameo appearance, Undercover, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25795867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirabilis/pseuds/mirabilis
Summary: And according to Inunaki, over a yakisoba bun from the local convenience store three blocks away from their apartment, they’re not thieves. According to Kiyoomi, he truly believes that is utter bullshit.This is not a story about the past, or the future. It’s about a heist. And how Atsumu bleeds into Sakusa’s life and makes it a living hell.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 68
Kudos: 326





	love, we're going home now

**Author's Note:**

> hello! whether you have stumbled upon this fic by chance or from twitter, thank you for taking your time to read this fic, I've been working on it for the past 2 weeks, and I hope you enjoy
> 
> Here’s the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/31BcNeVhlnwPVPXvQqqhRb?si=KJaaVgsGTqCe28PtOv7D9Q)
> 
> cw: blood, mysophobia, onychotillomania, language, panick attacks, fighting, unresolved tension, miya atsumu.

Kiyoomi isn’t sure when it began. When he delved into the criminal world, and swapped a normal life on the brinks of the earth, glorified with mundancies. Perhaps you could call it a normal life depending who you ask. If you ask Meian, he will glower around his hourly glass of whiskey, but if you ask Bokuto, you won’t get an answer, but maybe a hug instead. Everyone has their own story to tell, some decide to hide it behind their not so secret stash of bourbon, others wear it on their sleeve, it’s not the heart they seek to spill, and Kiyoomi stays away from their stories. Here, no one asks questions, and no one provides the answer. 

It works out for everyone. 

He doesn’t remember when he first Meian, he supposes it might’ve been a few years ago, or centuries in which he could mold time with his hands and place it delicately on the stage and time will perform a ballad and move the universe to tears. 

Meian is an interesting person, he’s a relatively easy person to work for, pays well, set Kiyoomi up with a decent living space, in an apartment complex with the rest of Meian’s team. 

Meian is mysterious, he likes the way a five am glass of whiskey tastes on his lips and gambling, he reads like an open book according to Kiyoomi, but Kiyoomi can only measure the amount of times Bokuto has attempted to prod open his privacy with a stick, only for Meian to shut him down. Kiyoomi doesn’t bother asking questions and in return Meian sends him on jobs, and pays him generously. Like he said, it works for everyone. 

And according to Inunaki, over a yakisoba bun from their local convenience store three blocks away from their apartment, they’re not thieves. According to Kiyoomi, he truly believes that is utter bullshit. 

According to Thomas, well, he doesn't have much to say on the matter, he’s in it for the money, the comfort of knowing there’s a home waiting for him. He also doesn’t want to be arrested, and Meian is well connected, he’s lived the life of a businessman, wielding the weapons of his finest team for years. Kiyoomi does feel a bit used, but he can’t complain. 

He supposes he can never complain, the moment he stepped underneath the ground, when he felt the dirt shovel up his lungs and knew he couldn’t breathe, perhaps that’s when it began. 

*

“Omi-Omi, can you hand me the orange juice?” Bokuto asks. He is standing in the middle near the oversized marble counter, three steps short of the refrigerator, and wiping his sweaty forehead with his arm sleeve. 

Kiyoomi's immediate reaction is to be repulsed. It’s natural, but after working with Bokuto for six months he should already be accustomed to his habits, and the way he maneuvers around Kiyoomi’s workspace. “Go and get it yourself.” He says, typing away at the computer. He is busy, very busy. Bokuto cranes his neck and frowns. But he jumps up from his seat, and pops open the lid to the container of the recently bought orange juice. 

Bokuto wipes his mouth once more and begins: “So, Meian-san has been acting--” He sets his cup down, “weird lately. I think he’s planning something.” 

The sun is only beginning to rise, and Kiyoomi’s glasses set low below the bridge of his nose pinch and he winces, therefore fighting against the discomfort and taking them off. “He’s always planning something.” 

Bokuto grunts, an agreement lodges in his throat, “He’s been secretive, he won’t even let me go inside his office!” 

“He never lets you inside his office.” 

It is true. No one is allowed into Meian’s office, not even Kiyoomi, who’s been working for him for as long as he can remember the correct way to expertly steal a watch from the lady sitting across from you at the ice cream shop and pinches your cheeks when you frown. Or when you swapped the Mikimoto pearls off the neck of the elderly when you were ten, almost got caught and scrubbed the germs off your hands for days until your fingernails became bloody and broken. 

Kiyoomi flexes his hand, feeling the way his tendons and muscles connecting to his wrist have grown stronger over the years, years of practicing in front of the bell-dummy while Barnes barked at him to go gently, become swifter. And Meian would inspect from the sidelines, an even gaze seeping throughout his expression. How his wrists coils like a snake around the worthy and praised, how it goes in blazes as he steals and steals, and till now, he wonders if God could forgive him for his hands that travel not to kill but rob the foolish. 

“Do you think Meian-san has ever killed someone?” Bokuto asks. Kiyoomi uncoils his hand, the knobs in his wrist relax, and he sets his hand against the keyboard of his computer. 

Kiyoomi sighs deeply, it is too early for Bokuto to begin to sink too deep into Meian’s past, they’ve all already made the pledge, unspoken and set in stone. “Probably. It’s not our business to go playing detectives.” He glares, “And can you close the refrigerator, otherwise all the food is going to spoil.” 

Bokuto shuts the refrigerator, and a gust of cold wind blows past them. “But think about it.” He insists. 

And Kiyoomi does, his thoughts float away into an endless void, and he assumes that Meian has killed before, while never in the times that Kiyoomi has ever worked for him, Meian is a mortal man who’s walked the streets, gambling with friends and foes and traveled the world, playing a game of roulette with life. But he is not immortal, he is not perfect. Here, no one is. That’s why they all work together so well. 

“Bokuto.” 

“Omi-Omi.” 

“Please do not call me that.” 

“Okay Omi-Omi.” 

*

Two days later, Meian sends him on a small job, it’s more an errand. Typically it’s his day off, but today, Meian requested that he make a small stop. Normally, Kiyoomi would reject, and say no, but he didn’t have anything better to do, and Meian was in a surly mood earlier he decided to be charitable. He hustles to catch the train to Tokyo after stopping by the building that Meian uses for all his central lines of network, disguised as a family run ramen shop with the best Tonkotsu Ramen, thick and hearty after a long day of work. 

The train takes a few hours, and Kiyoomi sits at the back of the bus, where the view is best to survey the vast movements skirting around the train. It begins with a woman sitting across him, Ponte Vecchio diamond ring radiating across the window, seated far enough that Kiyoomi could probably with the help of Bokuto, replace it with a knock-off ring in the matter of seconds. But he’s alone, and on an errand for Meian. He’s not greedy, he thinks, as he adjusts the hem of his black gloves fitting tight around his arm. Greedy is overreaching, he settles at his own pace, and the universe sits back and waits for him to fuck up. 

Kiyoomi waits for himself, and when it doesn’t come he moves on. 

You see, it’s not as simple as you may think. You can only pray that you won’t get caught, that one day, you can run away from this life, the life you ripped your heart for and laid across the table as vultures swooped down below and feasted on the only source of mortality that was left in your body. Does that make you greedy? 

Finally, the train halts to a stop, rattling the passengers as the monotone voice seeps through the air announcing that they’ve arrived to Kiyoomi’s stop. Then the world stops spinning, confining Kiyoomi to his enclosed space, wringing his neck like a towel discarded in the ashes of the defeated. You are normal, he reminds himself, pushing himself up from the seats. His gloves meet the metal of the seat, and he crawls away. No, not now he whispers. 

Kiyoomi forces himself to exit the train, entering the station and walking out the doors, and Tokyo’s rain beats like a drum against the nape of his neck. He pulls his mask further up and makes his way towards the street Meian sent him. The address is closer than he thought and he quickly makes the stop to the building where Meian asked Kiyoomi to pick something up for him. It’s fast, bare exchanged words and by the time he steps out it’s pouring. 

He did not bring an umbrella, unfortunate and he began to walk. The streets grow heavier, as people begin to weave their ways into shelter and Kiyoomi continues to walk. A flash of gold emerges from the crowd, and a shadow glides easily through the crowds, and Kiyoomi blinks away the rain to make haste of the silhouette. 

Their hand reaches out, and the civilian who happens to be walking in the opposite direction bumps into them. It’s in the blink of an eye that Kiyoomi notices it. God’s lending hand flips the switch of the bracelet, expensive, and light enough that no one would react to it’s lack of presence on the watch. And in the blink of an eye he moves on. Kiyoomi is gawking, like it's the first time again and bewilderment shatters his core. The figure slips away and Kiyoomi starts to run. Why? You may or may not ask. He has no clue, but he runs, as his feet slap the pavement and his legs move on their own. 

Rain drips on his lips, and he continues to run, training on the figure slipping through the sea of people, and then he stops. Kiyoomi awaits in the middle of the crosswalk. And water soaks his mask, and his hands grow clammy from his gloves, an itch blooms in his throat, through his stomach and climbing up his palm. 

Kiyoomi is never running errands again. 

*

“Hey, Omi-Omi, why are you soaking wet?” 

Kiyoomi coughs, and throws his very wet jacket across his chair. “I ran in the rain.” 

Inunaki snickers from his seat, and Bokuto rushes over to hand him the blankets slung from the back of the couch. “Isn’t it your day off?” 

“Shut up.” 

*

Meian calls the whole team in for a meeting a few days later, and Kiyoomi has recovered from his mild cold that stemmed from his terrible decisions. He still can't figure it out. What the fuck inclined him to chase a stranger in the rain, was it the magnetic drag to the stranger, how he expertly stole the civilian’s bracelet with sauve and patience. Or is that jealousy grows roots in his spine and he mourns the inability to walk. 

Whatever it is, he fucking hates the guy. “Why are you in such a bad mood today?” Inunaki asks, from his cup of ramen, fiddling with his computer, as broth slops all over the place. Kiyoomi is disgusted, he’s allowed to be, but he supposes he should cut Inunaki some slack after he fixed the bug on Kiyoomi’s computer and added some vague new enhancements without his knowledge. 

“It’s too early.” He answers.

“It’s nine o’clock in the morning.”

Bokuto nudges him, two pink, strawberry donuts buried deep into his mouth. “Meith-sen brought out the proejthor.” 

“Bokuto, no one can hear you.” Thomas quips helpfully and Bokuto swallows and points. 

“Meian-san brought out the projector.” 

He’s not wrong, the projector has been rolled out, which is used only for special occasions: heists. Kiyoomi is curious, only slightly, as Bokuto offers him a donut to which he refuses. And Inunaki shrugs, snatching it from his hands. But Kiyoomi chooses not to dwell on the meager details of the room, and pays attention when the door slides open and Meian enters. And there’s a figure behind him. 

“It’s you.” Kiyoomi growls. He doesn’t mean to say it that way, it just tumbles out of his mouth with fervent delicacy of a threat. 

The stranger he chased after in the streets enters, his shadow steps out of the shadow as he grins. “Hey stranger.” 

*

Kiyoomi hates him immediately, before he had a disturbing pleasure of only seeing his back, but now his eyes are burned with the sight of a boy, probably around his age, maybe older, hazy brown eyes that carve holes in Kiyoomi’s chest and makes him itch just by laying eyes on him. His hair is also absolutely atrocious. Blonde curls tousled as he was born for his face to be plastered on the billboards in Kyoto. An ugly face matching a horrendous personality he assumes. 

“What is he doing here?” Kiyoomi demands, and Inunaki takes the opportunity to open a bag of chips. 

“Allow me to explain.” Meian says cooly. As the blonde smugly smiles and rocks against Meian’s shoulder and whispers something into his ear. 

Shouyou blows up the bubblegum in his mouth, and Kiyoomi realizes that he’s overreacting, and sits down. “Why did you have to call us in so early?” Hinata asks. He worked part-time for the ramen shop below their offices, and was currently half dressed in an apron and clutching Inunaki’s half eaten bag of chips. 

“For the past few months, I’ve been planning.” Meian starts, and the boy sits back in the chair furthest away from the rest of the team but closest to the projector that Meian hooks up his computer and glances at Inunaki to come and set up. 

Inunaki rests his arms against the back of his head, “come back during business hours.” And puts his feet on the table. Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose and tells him to take his feet off. 

Meian rolls his eyes, and the projector flickers on as a vibrant slideshow begins and Meian wields the remote in his left hand. “As I was saying, I’ve been planning for the past few months, we’re pulling the biggest heist and you’re all going to help me.” 

Bokuto’s eyes glitter, and he sits up. “A heist? As in the ones you make us watch, like in the movies?” 

“Yes Bokuto.” 

Kiyoomi, however cannot share the same excitement as Bokuto, no one can really level the excitement he contains in every fiber of his body. It’s impossible. Kiyoomi nudges in the strangers direction, “what does he have to do with this? You rarely bring in people from the outside.”

Meian grins, like he just remembered to water his plant, or walk his dog. He does own a dog, a Shiba Inu named Akagi who Hinata voluntarily agrees to babysit while Meian is out of town. “Atsumu, it’s about time you introduced yourself.”

Ah. Atsumu. That’s his name. Kiyoomi feels a shudder of disgust run through his veins. Atsumu swings his legs from the chair and waves like he’s the new kid in class and a sea of students are swallowing him whole. 

“The name’s Miya Atsumu, you could say Meian and I, we go way back.” He says nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal. Like he just threw a cat into the ocean and told it to swim up shore. 

“What do you do?” 

Atsumu flashes a friendly smile, but Kiyoomi wants to seize his mouth and wring it into ashes and throw them into the ocean, where he left the cat to drown. “You could say that I present an array of exceptional talents.” 

He hates him. He hates Atsumu already and he’s only spent five minutes in the same room as him. “So you're a conman.” He says flatly. 

Atsumu clicks his teeth, “the pot calling the kettle black are you?” 

“We’re completely different people.” 

But are you, a voice bites viciously in the back of his head. He had seen the way, in the midst of a loosening crowd, in the pouring rain Atsumu so fluidly stole that stranger’s watch. We’re different, he confirms. 

Thomas clears his throat, “pardon the interruption, but can you guys save the fighting for later. Now, Meian, what exactly are we stealing?”

And Meian’s expression flips like a light switch and he presses on the remote control. And a single photo of a red, glistening ruby red piece of jewelry appears in frame. “We’re stealing a necklace.” 

*

Inunaki is the first to break the silence because he has a shitty habit of speaking what’s on his mind, what’s on everyone’s mind. “Well, this was a bit anticlimactic.” 

Hinata nods furiously along, “Yeah, whatever he said!” 

Meian rolls his eyes, and Kiyoomi paces his eyes between Atsumu curling back in his chair and the screen in front of him. He would never verbally agree with Inunaki, because that would simply defeat his whole purpose in life, but he does have a point. This was the heist Meian has been brewing in the past few weeks? Kiyoomi is very skeptical, no skeptical is the lightest way to put it, he’s confused, and doubtful. The slideshow continues, zooming in on the details of the necklace, Kiyoomi can see Inunaki’s eyes enlighten widely at the screen. 

“And no, Inunaki, this is not for you to take apart and tinker with.” Meian shoots back, and the glow in Inunaki dulls, just a little. 

Atsumu clears his throat, and removes his legs once more from being wrapped around the chair to gather the room’s attention. “Where is this necklace being held?” His eyes manifest in dark orbs, and for a second, he’s serious. 

Meian clicks on the remote, “Mori Art Museum in Roppongi. It’s under high security there.” 

A surprised snort, “That’s a fuckin’ death wish.. Are you crazy?” Atsumu announces. “Why is the necklace so important anyway?” 

Meian sets down the remote. A subtle change in his figure, the muscle in his jaw tightens. “It’s none of your business.” 

Atsumu clicks his tongue, Kiyoomi eats away at the tension, there’s definitely something going on. “Fuck yeah it’s my business, yer askin’ to pull off the biggest heist, you knew I was gonna settle down, and you asked me to come and I did.” 

There’s definitely going on, an unmarveled history that Meian is working hard to contain, and Atsumu, well, he seems infuriated, and a complete ass. “Let’s do it.”

Inunaki speaks out. Meian furrows his eyebrows in approval and Atsumu is miserable. Bokuto agrees quickly after, “Yeah! It can’t be that hard, plus, we’ve got Tsum-Tsum with us!” 

No Bokuto. Don’t put your complete trust in strangers, Kiyoomi begs. “What’d you just call me?” Atsumu asks. 

“This sounds like a terrible idea.” Kiyoomi says. 

“Fine, I have to admit it, it’s a bit far fetched. But Meian, you better have a damn good reason for wanting this necklace,” Atsumu swears, and Meian nods and smiles. 

“So, we’re doing it aren’t we?” Hinata crumples up the bag of chips and bounces up, unable to contain his unhinged excitement. 

He doesn’t like this one bit, and he turns to capture a hasty glance at Atsumu, he still despises him, that’s a given. But his own flicker of brilliance ignites and hunger parallel parks in Atsumu’s eyes and Kiyoomi turns away. This was still a terrible idea. 

*

Kiyoomi lingers in the break room, avoiding the counters that haven’t been wiped yet. He pours himself his second cup of coffee from the Nespresso coffee maker Meian brought a week earlier after Inunaki’s persistent begging. His gloves touch the surface, radioactive frequencies of germs unearth through the metal as he unlatches the top to pour in his coffee grounds. Not even the soft, woven fabric can separate him from the earth’s soiled surface. He wants to scrub his skin away from the rotten familiar taste, familiar rub of the skin when it comes in contact with everything. 

Once, when he was ten, and began working for Meian, or maybe it was when he was sixteen, it is but a blur of forsaken memories that Kiyoomi keeps in a jar, placed on his dresser. He had begun working with the bell-dummy, Meian named it ‘Dominic’ after watching the whole Fast and Furious movies in his week trip to Los Angeles. He hates Domonic and made qualms with the inanimate mannequin Barnes used to use when he started practicing. 

The bells constantly ringing in ears everytime he grazed the side of the instrument was one thing, but the feel of the material when he touched it. It was like death came to him in his worst nightmare and he was infected with thousands of germs that must’ve touched millions of others in order to reach Kiyoomi. 

He began to wear gloves. He solved a problem. Is he commended? You will have to wait before searching for that answer. He wears gloves in hopes that he will create space, space will stretch between vast mountains across unmarked land, unseen territory and destroy the bridge that links them. And then maybe, just maybe, Kiyoomi can breathe. 

“Coffee at three in the afternoon?” 

Kiyoomi turns around, to find Atsumu hanging around the counter, earning a one way ticket straight into Kiyoomi’s eyes. Revolting. And he faces the other and pulls out his mug, labeled in three different label makers to avoid any unwanted hands accidentally making use of his belongings. His knuckles graze the ceramic of the mug barely and he swears. 

Atsumu is very satisfied. And Kiyoomi would like nothing more but to rip his lips and swing a bat at his mouth and break his pretty mouth. No. It’s not pretty, it’s pretty damn annoying. “It’s never too late for caffeine.” Kiyoomi remarks. 

He seems delighted to strike up a conversation, oddly. Kiyoomi however disagrees, and if he didn’t appreciate his coffee too much, he would pour it over Atsumu’s head just from having to listen to his voice. 

“You know, I think we got off the wrong foot. And since we’re going to be partners,” the way ‘partner’ rolls over Atsumu’s pink tongue fulfills all malicious speculations that Kiyoomi concluded to, and Kiyoomi doesn’t like it one bit. “We should start over, I think we could be friends.” And he reaches out his hand, perhaps an agreement. 

“Friends.” Kiyoomi echos. 

“Ever heard of it, Omi-kun? It’s when two people circulating in similar interests—“ 

Kiyoomi cuts him off, “I know what the definition of friend is, however I’m going to stop you there. We will never be friends. I despise you.” He adds, cutting glass across the cheek and he’s certain that Bokuto and Inunaki are hiding around somewhere listening. 

He moves to the side, and Atsumu grabs a paper cup and fills it with hot water. “Is that so, yer not very nice Omi-kun. I really thought we could be friends.” A smirk wiped across his face, it’s crude to use humor in an oblivious lie like this one. 

“Please do not call me that.”

“Call you what?” 

“Omi-kun.” 

Atsumu squeezes the lemon slices discarded from the lemons and limes they have in a jar, which is weird because Kiyoomi does not remember them. “Sure thing Omi-kun.” He hums. 

“I mean it.” Kiyoomi says. And malice twists Atsumu’s tongue as he takes his cup of lemon water (?) and begins to walk away. 

A lazy flick of the wrist, he clearly is enjoying this whole conversation. “See you later partner.” Atsumu waves, and Kiyoomi almost possesses the strength or sheer hatred to crush his mug, but remembers that half the team is watching and sets it down. 

*

Kiyoomi to say the least, avoids Atsumu for the rest of the day. Except the only problem is that he’s everywhere, in the matter of twenty-four hours, Atsumu wedges himself and builds a castle. He eagerly tags alongside Bokuto, and recommends the best thrasher films that he’s watched during his time halfway across the world. Atsumu joins Hinata when he offers the extra controller to the Xbox in the break room. Inunaki even willingly lets him take a lollipop from his secret stash, that isn’t ever secret at this point. Kiyoomi finds it bewildering and suspicious how easily Atsumu roots himself into a group of people he’s only known for about a day. 

Now, it’s later in the day, and Hinata heaves up three bags of plastic bags with takeout from the restaurant downstairs, On the house he insists, and sets them down on the table. Collectively they gather the maps, security layouts and folders piled near Meian’s end and sweep them to the floor. Kiyoomi sits back, as the rest of the team dives into the takeout and begins to eat. Atsumu offers a dimpled smile, and waves his chopsticks like this was a family cook-out and he’s encouraging Kiyoomi to take another helping. 

“Eat up Omi-san, there’s more than enough to go around!” Hinata chirps, and presses a set of chopsticks into Kiyoomi’s hands. A friendly smile fluttering across his lips, but it’s the breeze between their touch that he almost recoils. 

“Thanks.” 

He breaks open a container of rice and starts eating. Kiyoomi is careful to make sure that the chopsticks have been wiped down, to which Hinata reassures him and happily begins munching on his gyoza. Meian emerges from his office, remote in hand, and a collection of tired groans are released across the room. Well, mostly from Bokuto and Inunaki’s direction. “Not this again, I thought we already covered everything.” Bokuto muffles after stuffing his face with udon noodles. 

“Shion, if you would please.” Meian orders and Inunaki rolls his eyes but stands. He harshly presses on the first button and turns. 

An identical map of Mori Art Muesum’s blueprints appear on the projector. “According to a good friend of mine who works there, there are four floors. The special floor is where the necklace is being located is on the top floor.” And the projector zooms in, as he adds, “from the insider Meian set up, there are over thirty security guards working throughout the whole shift, that cover the third floor.” 

“That’s not a lot right? We can slip right past them?” Bokuto says, hope riveting in his eyes. 

“What’s the catch?” Kiyoomi interrupts. 

Inunaki gestures to Kiyoomi with the remote, “you’re not very fun at parties are you?” and when Kiyoomi glares, he huffs a delighted laugh, “unfortunately, the best time to steal the necklace also happens to be the museum's busiest event, and the security will be doubled. The whole museum will be on high alert.”

“What’s the event?” Atsumu calls out, chowing down on Okonomiyaki. 

“It’s the museum's twenty-third anniversary since opening, they hold the event annually.” 

Atsumu shrugs, “that’s not terrible, if we can somehow make it past the guards, the dozens of security cameras lodged throughout the whole museum, stray away from the hundreds of guests without being seen and make it to the vault and steal the necklace,” He smiles lopsidedly, “It’ll be a piece of cake.” 

*

Meian calls him the next morning. It was not his day off, it was a Wednesday morning. Kiyoomi reluctantly follows his routine. He wakes up to an empty apartment at seven in the morning. He was fortunate enough to be graced with an apartment on the higher floors, looking out to the street facing the horizon, a ribbon of orange and midnight blue streaking across the sky, a slight painter’s hand splashing paint across the canvas. Kiyoomi hates mornings. 

Meian meets him in the ramen shop downstairs, the place empty and ghostly quiet. Their conversation goes like this: 

“No morning whiskey?” Kiyoomi asks. 

Meian peers from over his cup of tea, and smiles ominously. “Trying something new I suppose.” His smile turns wistful, a finger tapping the handle mindlessly. 

“Do you really trust him?” 

“Trust who?” 

Kiyoomi flippantly retracts his hands from the surface of the table where they sit, the tv in the corner hums low with the morning news. “You know who I’m talking about.” 

“I do trust him, I’ve always trusted him. He’s lived a harsh life.” Meian chuckles, “A life harsher than mine.” 

“How so?” 

Meian shrugs, a wall is reconstructed between them, sedimentary crawls on its feet to build two worlds, and it’s Kiyoomi alone on the other side. “You’ll have to ask him yourself. He’s never been terribly open with his personal life.” 

Kiyoomi feels a pit of shame, and curiosity. He could relate, in the worst way, how persistently he works to hide his past, or to hide the childhood he doesn’t remember. He has no presented interest in Atsumu, he never will. But there is a flicker of a fire, drawing him close to the end of the tunnel, the air around Atsumu is sickening, and steers him closer. “I see.” Kiyoomi finally replies. 

Meian returns to sipping his tea peacefully, a five o’clock shadow leering over his jaw, and clicked criticism reaches the tip of his tongue, but Kiyoomi keeps it to himself and lets the sunrise spread its hands over Ebisu in a welcoming demeanor. 

*

When Kiyoomi enters his apartment later that night, the moment he turns the key into the lock, a cluster of chills run through his body. He turns the knob, and slips off his shoes in the entryway. His hands are busy holding the plastic bags full of groceries from their convenience store that Kiyoomi often visits for several, different occasions. He leaves them next to the kitchen. The light switch flipped off, the cool air from an open window of the balcony cracked open. His keys tightened inside his fist, he can feel the curved metal of the key slicing his palm. 

There’s a bare shuffle scuffing the mahogany hardwood floors, and Kiyoomi turns around as a dark figure darts through the dark, and he leaps. Kiyoomi rushes to turn on the main light, as it flares. And there’s someone sitting in his chair, legs crossed in pure elegance, elbow leaning against the arm. 

Kiyoomi drops his keys, “What the hell are you doing here?” he demands. 

Atsumu loosely grins, but remains seated. “Rude.” he says. “Is that any way to treat a guest?” 

“I never invited you.” and he pauses, fingernails digging into his fresh. Breathe Kiyoomi, he reminds himself. “How the fuck did you get inside?” 

Snorting, Atsumu grins, you already know how, his smile screams. And Kiyoomi regrets asking, but it’s rhetorical and solidifies his chances of looking like a complete idiot when he’s around Atsumu. He’s a fucking conman, an undetected pickpockter with a very sketchy, mysterious past, nearly as mysterious as Meian. To ask Atsumu how he was easily able to sneak inside Kiyoomi’s apartment, without setting off the alarms is a very unintelligent question. Ask me, Atsumu’s grin roars, ask me how I snuck inside. Fuck you Kiyoomi hisses back. 

“Yer apartment is quite luxurious.” Kiyoomi cringes every time Atsumu opens his mouth. 

“Please, stop talking.” 

Atsumu laughs, bursting through the windows, the night is alive in the wake of his voice, and Kiyoomi hates the vibration ringing so clearly in his ears. “That, unfortunately is something I cannot do, however, can I offer you advice?” 

The stench of closeness is drowning Kiyoomi, Atsumu smells like mint and cedar wood. Kiyoomi moves to his groceries, left and nearly forgotten in the moment. “No.” 

“Get yerself a better security system. And those locks on yer door, easily breakable.” He supports, like he’s actually providing advice to Kiyoomi’s helpful. But really, the aggravation rises every time he continues to speak

“Do you normally break into people’s apartments and offer shitty advice?” Kiyoomi snaps. 

Atsumu stands up, and makes a beeline for Kiyoomi. Automatically, he begins to back up. It’s the gaze that holds him still. Swimming in despair, unfathomable waters that Kiyoomi sinks to the bottom. “Sometimes.” Atsumu replies. Down to earth is grey misery, ah, at least he’s honest. 

And then the glass held up by the small fraction of time, breaks and shatters on the floor and Atsumu passes him. He begins to open the door, and suddenly something flies through the air and lands in his hands. Kiyoomi holds it up, the glint of the gold watch Meian had given to him when he had turned eighteen, You earned it, Meian had said, an earnest smile thumbtacked his lips. The Grand Seiko watch glaring in the fear of the night. The clasp had been tight on his wrist, he had made sure of it. 

He’s an expert at it, that’s how. “Good night Omi-kun.” and the door closes behind him. The impact of the door leaves Kiyoomi clutching his watch, metal grasping at the bits of skin soon to be healed. 

Kiyoomi proceeds to clean his hands fifteen times (sixteen times after accidentally touching the bezel) and his finger splits open, water runs red in the sink and Atsumu’s smile reaches the back of his mind. 

Seventeen times. 

*

There’s that nagging feeling again, he wouldn’t call it a feeling, but it’s persistent and pegs his insides to the point of extinction. Kiyoomi would love nothing more than to bid it goodbye but it continues to hug and clasp onto his lungs like a parasite, sending poison through his trachea and flowing like blood around his rib cage. He’s never experienced this severity of curiosity in his life, not when Meian first offered him the job to work for him, not when he hated the stench of germs left after he made contact with the bell-dummy. Or when he ran in the rain, building a temple on top of the hill, every step bringing him closer to the answers he dares to seek. 

Kiyoomi stops thinking, and it brings him to now. “Inunaki, can you do something for me?” 

Inunaki swirls from his desk chair, Thomas tailed close to him, heads close together. He wipes his mouth and throws the tissue into the trash can located right next to his desk. “Not without a price.” He sings, steepling his fingers and cracks his knuckles.

“This is a favor, not a job.” Kiyoomi says, and Inunaki wiggles his finger in disapproval. Everything is a job to him, where compensation is involved mostly. 

“Pay up.” 

Kiyoomi sighs, there was no way fucking way he was paying him. This was Inunaki’s job and hell, he would never admit it but he’s pretty damn good at it. “I’ll pay for this week’s dinner.” He proposes. Inunaki straightens, Thomas rolls his eyes, and scrolls through his phone. 

“And next week’s dinner, of my choice.” Inunaki finalizes. 

“Fine.” 

Inunaki smiles giddily, and cracks a knuckle, “Pleasure doing business with you.” and his computer screen lights up and Kiyoomi awkwardly stands behind him from a distance. “What am I doing?” 

He inhales, “Give me everything you can find about Atsumu.” 

Inunaki is wearing sunglasses indoors, apparently the light fixture is terrible for his eyesight considering the computer screen is where he’s staring at during most hours of the day. “Someone’s obsessed.” he whistles. 

“Just do it.” 

The room is filled with Inunaki’s fast typing, a database pulls up as Kiyoomi watches him type a code in, and there in civilian records. A few minutes go by, and Inunaki hits the print button a series of files as they print out in the printer Meian was also coerced to buy by Inunaki. He spins to meet Kiyoomi and hands him over, as Kiyoomi peels through each page, it’s mostly blank, limited details given. He was born in Hyogo, his age is not provided and there are parents listed as legal guardians, both deceased. 

Kiyoomi squeezes the wad of papers. “This is all that’s there?” 

Inunaki shrugs, and opens a bento box and starts eating. God dammit their team is hopeless. “Yeah, pretty much. There’s not a lot on his records. I don’t know what to tell you, he’s a weird guy,” 

Useless. They’re all useless. “Who’s a weird guy?” A voice behind them asks. And Kiyoomi further clutches the records, or what was scarcely there into his hands. Atsumu leans over the cubicle, and pointedly smiles at Kiyoomi, like he was holding a camera waiting for him to take a photo. Picture-perfect adorned in full-breeded ugliness and misery. 

“You are useless.” Kiyoomi says, and Inunaki returns his remark with a thumbs-up. 

Inunaki cackles, and Thomas slaps his hand, muttering something about being childish. “I’ll text you my order.” And begins striking up a conversation with Atsumu casually. 

“Leave me alone.” he mutters. 

*

Kiyoomi later discovers his apartment is not empty when he returns from running errands for Meian. His living room is something of a nightmare, with Bokuto and Hinata sitting on the couch and Atsumu slouching lazily behind him. The tv is turned to the loudest volume and littered in a haphazard manner is ‘Heist for Dummies’. He recognizes the movie playing with japanese subtitles as ‘The Italian Job’. A headache begins to stir at his temples and Kiyoomi finds the remote to the tv and presses the ‘off’ button as the screen goes pitch black. 

“Ever heard of privacy?”

Hinata licks his thumb and opens a random page, “Sorry Omi-san, Atsumu let us in. We’re trying to do some research for the heist.” He says cheerfully and then frowns because he got a paper cut. Hinata, you’re not doing it right. 

Kiyoomi’s eye twitches as Atsumu slides off the couch, and presents a broad, ambiguous smile. “Heya Omi-kun, I was just helping out.” 

“Could you please help out somewhere else, preferably somewhere outside of my apartment?” Atsumu ignores him, and his face twists and he holds his stomach. 

“I’m hungry, let’s go out and eat. I know a place.” Atsumu says. Bokuto’s face is currently nose deep into a self-help book, which is quite a bizarre sight to behold, so Kiyoomi doesn’t and looks away and wishes for privacy instead. 

“Good. Now, leave and go by yourself.” 

Atsumu cocks his head, a goofy smile playing high on the corners of his mouth, like the spot is shining on him, bright and delirious. “Come on now Omi-kun, this isn’t very pleasant of you.” 

“Where is the place?” 

His smile turns from goofy to just ludicrous as he smiles even wider and answers, “It’s super close, we can walk.” 

Hinata and Bokuto clean up the mess, enough that Kiyoomi won’t abandon Atsum to run off back into his apartment and mop the whole living room space. He locks the door, avoiding the devilish grin knocking at the roof of Atsumu’s mouth, daring to creep open. It’s a sunny afternoon, around one o’clock, Ebisu’s sunny weather burns on the back of his neck as Kiyoomi walks alongside Atsumu. Thankfully, Atsumu doesn’t bother opening his mouth and they keep enough distance to themselves. 

Ten minutes later, they stop, and Atsumu graciously opens the door to an American diner off the corner of Ebisu East Park. There’s a sentimental ring of the doorbell that alerts the owners of their presence. “Good afternoon sir!” Atsumu says. And an older man maneuvers from around the counter to hand them two menus. 

They sit down, and the owner reaches for Atsumu and pleasantly ruffles his hair, affection setting in small wrinkles at the edge of his eyes and dimples peek near his cheek. “How are you? it’s been a while since you last visited.”

The walls of glass are shattered again, and a gentle, kind smile (never in Kiyoomi’s life would he ever think to describe Atsumu’s smile as ‘kind’) appears. “Three years has it been?” wistful and cloud memories catch in the pupils of his eyes, and he’s lost in a thought for a minute. Then he snaps awake, and hands back the menu, “I’ll have the usual.” 

Kiyoomi orders the first thing he lays on that sounds decent from the menu and the owner leaves them in peace. Red and white striped wallpapers, air conditioning blowing at his legs, it seems family-friendly, not exactly the place he imagined Atsumu eating at. “Didn’t imagine you eating fries and burgers at a diner like this.” Kiyoomi comments. 

Atsumu taps the diner’s counters, thousands of germs just dipped into his fingertips. “I used to come here all the time when I was younger, my— my brother and I would come here a lot.” He sounds as if he’s distant. Standing in rubble of ashes and cascading memories dripping down his hands, and then clasping the memory tight. 

“Brother?” That was definitely not in the records Inunaki filed together. 

Atsumu chuckles softly. “Yeah.” 

“Is he—“ Kiyoomi trails off and Atsumu makes a face like someone ran over his cat and that Kiyoomi had just told him the funniest joke on earth. 

“God. No. He isn’t dead Omi-kun.” And then turns to him, gazing deep, but not falling. “Yer worried for me aren’t you?”

“Fuck no.” And Atsumu laughs, loud and clear throughout the empty diner. As their food is finally brought, and Atsumu is laughing like they hold something dear together, an inside joke only between them. Brother huh? Kiyoomi knows there’s something else, something dark looming around his heart, and he wants nothing more but to rip it out and feast upon his secret. But this will have to do for now. 

*

“Good mornin’ Omi-kun!” Atsumu greets him the next day, sidling up close to Kiyoomi as if sitting across from each other at a diner Atsumu frequently visits and weighs heavily in a portion of his past that suddenly made them close. 

“Hmm.” Kiyoomi grumbles back. It was too early to hold a decent conversation, and he walks over to the machine and pours himself a fresh pot of coffee. Atsumu sips his lemon water, and Kiyoomi really wants him to give him crap for it but the tip of his tongue feels sluggish and heads straight to the table filled with a plethora of fresh pastries and baked goods from the bakery in downtown Ebisu that Thomas had brought from on his way back from work at an auto repair shop. 

Hinata hands him a plate stacked with strawberry danishes and a chocolate croissant. “Morning Omi-san!”

“Morning.” He manages to grunt a half-hearted greeting and Atsumu feigns a hurt gawk. 

“So Shouyou-kun gets a good mornin’ but I don’t?” Atsumu retorts. “Rude.” 

Hinata just smiles along, and pats Atsumu’s shoulder and takes his seat. Meian exits from his office, no remote for the projector in hand, and instead he passes out a stamped group of papers. “There've been a few developments in the plan, now everyone keep their mouths shut and listen up.” 

Atsumu crosses his arm and leans over to Kiyoomi, “he’s in a cranky mood huh.” He’s always in a cranky, close to shitty mood he wants to bite back. Anything to watch his expression fall into silence and sew his lips shut. 

Bokuto sits up, practically flying from his seat. “Keiji!” He exclaims, and Kiyoomi looks up to discover Akaashi, taking the floor. 

Akaashi nods in their direction, and takes a quick moment to extend a reaching smile to  
Bokuto before speaking. “From what I understand, Mori Art Museum’s anniversary event is two days away, invite only. I was able to bargain two tickets, without raising suspicion.” 

“So what, the rest of us are gonna sneak in?” Atsumu asks. 

“Not exactly. We will be stationed around the museum, while Inunaki camps out in a disclosed location nearby. Thomas will be ready to join him at any given moment for backup.” Meian butts in. 

Akaashi nods, and digs out presumably the two tickets out of his pocket and hands one to Kiyoomi and one to Atsumu, “wait. We’re the one’s going to the party. You’ve got to me kiddin’ me. Don’t tell me we’re gonna havta’ dress up.” Atsumu deadpans. 

An ominous shrug from Akaashi. God. Why did Bokuto like him in the first place? “Both of you are going undercover, and it’s formal wear.” 

“Wait what?” 

*

Kiyoomi did not truly believe that he would be spending the rest of his morning, in an empty back room that the team never uses, desks and chairs pushed back to create a dance space. Staring dead straight into Atsumu’s eyes forcefully while he grips his waist. They were dancing. Or— more like struggling to find the right place to begin actually dancing. “Sakusa-san, I’m afraid that you’re actually going to have to touch him to actually dance.” Akaashi observes from the sidelines. He had been appointed to help with the dancing proportion. Kiyoomi did not know that there would be dancing, but it was a party, surrounded by thousands of guests under one roof. “This is the waltz, not break dancing.” 

“I’m sorry, but there is no way this is going to work.” Kiyoomi asserts, taking a step away from Atsumu. 

Atsumu breaks apart, crossing his arms, “yer being too uptight, it’s just one dance.” it’s one dance, it’s three-hundred seconds of being held by him, grabbing his shoulder willingly, and dancing together as if Kiyoomi does not want to throttle Atsumu. It’s the facade that makes Kiyoomi nauseous just thinking about it. 

One dance. Yeah right, a lot of things can happen during one dance. 

Akaashi rubs his eyes, he most definitely did not sign up for this. “Well, make it work, the last thing we want is for the both of you to break cover over trivial matters like this.” 

Atsumu inches close, closer than where he was thirty seconds ago. No, go back, create the space that’s meant to be parted in the air they’ve created inside this room. “If it helps, close yer eyes.” 

“Are you—” He starts but Atsumu silences him and brings him close and music starts up, they waltz for a while and Kiyoomi closes his eyes. If he opens them, and then he will lose a fighting battle. 

*

There’s two days until the night of the heist, and Kiyoomi still cannot figure out Atsumu, he is a puzzle, scattered around the floor with broken edges and sliced smiles and remains unfixable to Kiyoomi. You could try, Atsumu provokes, while lounging around in his apartment uninvited in his dreams, you could try to figure me out. Why would I? Atsumu only grins, stretching through Ebisu’s street and meeting the Pacific Ocean in a sea battle. 

Here he is again, in an internal monologue with Atsumu in his dreams, except Kiyoomi speaks for himself, and Atsumu’s voice collapses under the darkness. In order to help relinquish the dreams, he does the next best thing. He works out. Bokuto accompanies him to the gym next door conveniently where sometimes Hinata also joins them to burn off steam. He follows his same routine and begins to stretch, Bokuto hits the bench, weight-lifting and there in the center of the gym, is the bell-dummy ‘Dominic’ that’s constantly haunted him for years. Hinata attempts come off weakish as the bells shrill, serving reminders of his own failed attempts. Barnes was hanging nearby to watch him from afar. Kiyoomi removes his gloves and begins to bandage his hands in replacement. They feel naked, flesh greeting the air and Kiyoomi wants to hide them away from the world. 

“Omi-kun, it’s always a delight to see you.” Atsumu greets him from behind, as Kiyoomi inhales and stands. 

“Can’t say the same for you. Why are you following me?” 

Atsumu’s movements are languorous as if he’s waited for this day, and his smile is enigmatic. “Bokkun invited me, don’t flatter yerself.” 

“Go away.” And Atsumu laughs lightly, and begins to walk away in Hinata’s direction to offer him advice he assumes and Hinata jumps at his presence. 

Time passes by, and Kiyoomi runs the treadmill for a solid half hour until he feels warmed up. Until he discovers Atsumu, just leaning against the frame just smiling. Yo, Omi-kun, spare with me will you?” 

Kiyoomi ignores him, “No.” 

Amused, Atsumu tries again, to Kiyoomi's disgruntlement. “Are you scared? Come on, Meian’s been seizin’ up his protegee these past years and I wanna see if yer really worth the talk.” He taunts. 

So that’s his goal. To belittle him into a fist of fury and with good graces and launch a full attack to degrade Kiyoomi into a pile of dust. That’s the type of games he likes to play. And he takes the bait, because there’s that string that draws him to Atsumu. “Okay.” he steadily says. 

They make their way to the mats laid out, and Bokuto and Hinata oversee the match, interest dawning on their faces and a stopwatch ready in Hinata’s hands. “Ready, set,--” 

Atsumu readies, feet planted on the mat, “I’m abouta’ kick yer ass.” 

“You wish.” 

“Go!” And Atsumu cuts in close, fists raised as he swings to deliver a quick punch but Kiyoomi avoids the strike and pounces back. He inspects his stance, like a viper in the jungle ready to attack its prey, but it’s the easygoing smile placed on his face that nearly startles Kiyoomi. 

He attacks first this time, punching at his stomach, to catch him off guard, but Atsumu deflects it and kicks him near the ankles, to force him to lose balance and fall to his knees. And he falls for it, and falls and Atsumu’s eyes glitter gold under the gym’s light fixture as Kiyoomi rolls over and stands up. “Not too bad.” Atsumu says, his breath wavering. 

“Absolutely terrible.” Kiyomi replies. And Atsumu throws a kick and Kiyoomi steps aside to deflect, and tracks his movement. Sweat flies from his brow, and the bandage wrapped around wrist curls as he blocks a punch, and Kiyoomi throws another side kick to catch him off his feet, white noises fill his ears, and Atsumu’s once meticulously placed blonde curls now fly around his head. A grin knocks the pleasant looking smile and it’s dangerous. 

Kiyoomi’s foot slips on the mat, as he falls, and Atsumu collapses onto him. And he’s trapped, out of breath and his knee aches, along with his back from his fail to properly fall. Atsumu’s breath is hot, and smells almost gruesome, like fresh toothpaste. “Get off me.” Kiyoomi quickly mumbles. Atsumu stays. Kiyoomi despises the lack of distance between them. 

“Now yer playin’ dirty.” Atsumu smirks, nudging to the knife placed against his neck that Kiyoomi had been hiding in the inside of his bandage. Kiyoomi aches and he offers a short-circuited smile. 

“Three minutes and forty-nine seconds.” Hinata announces. It’s a draw. 

*

Kiyoomi dreams of him again. He’s standing on the rooftop of the Mori Art Museum, Atsumu stands on the ledge, perhaps feeling invincible against the rest of the world. Are you scared? 

No. I’m not. Kiyoomi wakes up dead in the night. The curtains have been opened, revealing the night in its greatest glory, the stars twinkling fiercely and he pulls the covers back and heads to the bathroom. He washes his hands, once, and then it turns into two times, three times— a ritual he’s used to following, until he’s interrupted. And there’s a panicked knock at the door and he flips the sink handle and makes his way to the door. 

He was not expecting company, particularly at this time, in the middle of the night. If it was Bokuto or Hinata asking for his gallon of milk, why, he has no idea. It’s alarming, both the knocking that confines to grow rapid and the idea that someone is knocking at his door this late. Kiyoomi loosens the lock, not bothering to check the security system cameras propped below the cabinets of his kitchen. 

He opens the door to recognize a familiar face, unfortunately. “It’s midnight, what are you doing in front of my door?” Atsumu stands there, looking smaller in a grey sweater, unruly blonde hair tumbling past his eyes, his shoulders shaking. Or was he standing perfectly still and Kiyoomi is in a dream, still dreaming of Atsumu. 

“Omi-kun, it’s always a pleasure to hear yer voice.” He laughs and comes out short. “Are you busy?” 

“It’s midnight.” 

Atsumu grins and leans against the frame of the door. He could’ve perfectly entered Kiyoomi’s apartment, without raising the alarms, or waking up Kiyoomi for that matter. But instead, he knocked on his door, without shame and appears to Kiyoomi, almost broken, like he woke up from a nightmare. “Right, right.” He says. 

“What the hell happened to your fingernails?” Kiyoomi asks, and Atusmu holds them up almost for him to inspect. Bloodied. Broken. Bruised. 

“Jus’ blowin’ off steam,” 

Kiyoomi sighs. And widens his door, “come inside, and do not sit on the couch, or make any noise.” 

Atsumu seems grateful and the flicker of grandeur that runs through his eyes returns. “If you want me to stop breathin’ you just could’ve just asked nicely.” He takes a seat on the bar stool, good enough for Kiyoomi. 

“That would be extremely helpful.” Kiyoomi heads back into the bathroom and pulls out the last cotton swabs and bandages his first aid-kit had and returns back to the kitchen. To find Atusmu, still in his apartment. “Give me your hands.” 

And reluctantly, he does, spreads them wide. He’s never seen them up close. The cuticles seem to be almost ripped apart, red and swollen. The rest of his fingers are relatively bruised, like he decisively smacked his knuckles against wood repeatedly. “Omi-kun,” 

“What?”

“Can I tell you somethin’” Atsumu suddenly says. 

Kiyoomi grunts. “As long as you shut up after.” Or preferably never speak again. Or enter Kiyoomi’s life again. Whichever one is easier. 

“I sometimes get these nightmares. Where I can’t breathe, like my lungs are collapsing and I’m trapped in this box. And I can’t get out.” 

He finishes cleaning up the blood, how far can he get, how close can he get to wonder how soft his hands are, if galaxies threaded together the whole universe aligned on the bridge of his knuckles, those hands that have committed countless of crimes. Oh, how their worlds collide. 

Kiyoomi stays silent, simply holding his hand and Atsumu finds comfort in leaning against the counter. He quietly hums something like a soft melody, and it’s midnight again.

*

“Stop fidgeting, you’re going to mess up your suit.” Akaashi says, readjusting the lapel of his suit, and Kiyoomi stills. The vehicle is disguised as the Okamoto Kitchen food truck was currently parked across the street from the Mori Art Museum. From the glass windows of the truck, he can see the multicolored lights inside the building, fragmented and shining in the darkness. The truck is stuffy, Inunaki sits in his makeshift work area, the surveillance of the whole museum from over a hundred angles appears on the dozens of screens circulating around him, he must’ve already hacked the museum’s security system. 

“It’s so hot.” Kiyoomi responds, fixating on his cufflinks ( Swarovoski, golden). Atsumu is being suited up by Thomas, who just nods and shakes his head whenever Atsumu opens his mouth even the slightest. Currently, Thomas struggles to brush Atsumu's obnoxious waves of hair, and sprays hair gel to keep it in place. Atsumu coughs and swats at the air. Kiyoomi feels a stir of groveling gratification and shuns it away fast. 

Atsumu heads towards the back of the truck, where Kiyoomi was, straightening out his tie. “How do I look Omi-kun?” He asks. Like he’s truly expecting a sincere answer from him. 

“In my opinion? You look repulsive.” Kiyoomi offers. Atsumu clicks at the heel of his shoe (Kilton Monk Strap Cap-toe leather). 

“You don’t look so bad yerself.” 

Meian interrupts, as Akaashi finishes hemming the bottom of his pant leg and stands up. “Both Bokuto and Hinata are in position, Thomas will follow suit and be there for back-up and return for getaway when it’s time.” 

Kiyoomi nods, and there’s a switch of softness in Meian’s expression, or perhaps it’s the greed and determination that this heist has to be successful. For whatever reason. “Understand.” And Atsumu joins him simultaneously. 

The door opens, and Inunaki flashes him a signature thumbs-up, “Good luck, don’t fuck it up for everyone now!” 

Atsumu grunts dismissively, “asshole.” he bitterly mutters. 

The impact of the cold hits first, through the arm of his suit, a simple midnight blue color that apparently sets off the flecks of grey in his eyes coming from Inunaki’s mouth. But he won’t take his word for it. They’re getting closer to the museum when Atsumu stops him, “Meian told me to give these to you.” He pulls out a pair of black, linen gloves from his suit jacket pocket and hands him to Kiyoomi. 

Ah, that’s what was missing, he felt there was something off about his appearance, damn Meian. “Thanks.” he says quietly. 

And the grin follows, was it joyful or was it the way fear morphed strangely stitched it’s way through mouth. “Nervous?” 

Kiyoomi laughs a little, mostly in disbelief. “Are you?” 

Atsumu’s smile broadens, his black suit curating a fire in his golden eyes, like a lion, fierce and always looking ahead. Kiyoomi slides the gloves onto his hands, and they fit perfectly. The flesh colored earpiece in both their ears buzz, as Meian’s voice beeps through the intercom. “Are you both ready?” 

He gives a little shrug, here goes nothing, what’s the risk? A million, a million things could go wrong with his heist. Kiyoomi wants to append, give the last say to this reckless plan. But he keeps his mouth shut, and lets Atsumu take the floor. 

Atsumu didn’t look completely repulsive when cleaned up, Kiyoomi realizes. “We’re ready.” 

*

When they first enter, there are thousands of glass panels towering above each other that make the exterior of the building, hundreds of people moving past them, a glass spider’s eyes glistening when it captures its prey in the midst of its web. Atsumu surveys his surroundings, analytical and pensive, as he whispers casually, presumably for the Inunaki and Meian on the other line of their earpieces. Kiyoomi looks around, just the main level is already packed where guests are pouring through security. From the view of the stairwell that Atsumu and Kiyoomi observe from, he counts over three-hundred guests. 

“Four-hundred and twenty,” Atsumu says coyly, leaning against the golden painted railing. 

Kiyoomi disregards him, possibly blocking out his voice, “We have to make it past security, let’s go.”

Red velvet carpet cushions into the head of his shoe every step he takes down the stairs. Kiyoomi takes a deep breath, it feels as if there's a thermostat inside his suit that has been turned up hundred degrees. The museum itself is breathtaking, in the middle stands a sculpture, abstract most likely, Kiyoomi has never been too attentive when it comes to art, fascinated in the orbit of aesthetics around him. He does garden on occasion though, a habit from an old frenemy he acquired when he was younger. The fabric lining his gloves begins to itch, and he fidgets with the hem of it. Atsumu notices and bumps his shoulder, “I thought you said you weren’t nervous?” 

“I’m not.” 

The line for security check is long, and grows gradually longer as more guests pour inside. “It’s a pleasure to see the both of you.” A voice says behind them, and they both turn to find Akaashi dressed impeccably professional in a suit and tie, as if he was running around the truck attempting to gear everyone up. They both still had their tickets in hand, Akaashi would help smooth over the process of entering. There’s Meian, always planning one step ahead. 

Atsumu replaces his expression with feigned remembrance, like running into an old friend. “Good evening Daisuke.” He uses Akaashi’s fake name, and the badge of clearance glims on the name-tag clipped to his suit. Inunaki must’ve made it earlier. 

“Come with me.” Akaashi leads, as they make it to the front of the line, and the security manning the line gives them a weary glance to which Akaashi leans over and whispers into his ear, and he nods and they hand over their tickets. Akaashi gestures for them to follow, as they make way through the crowd. 

“Thank you,” Kiyoomi says, polite and he can see the sneaking smile protrude from the tips of Atsumu’s mouth, like he’s mocking him.

“Enjoy the rest of your night.” 

And through the thick of the crowd, Akaashi slowly disappears and Atsumu comes closer. Don’t Kiyoomi pleads, it’s more a hesitant whisper inside his head that Atsumu is unable to hear. “Shall we?” He offers him an elbow, playing the part, he knows Meian’s watching, the whole team is listening in. 

Kiyoomi accepts his elbow and they walk further inside the museum. 

*

He can hear the smallest gasp of awe escape Atsumu when they step further into the floor, glass boats displayed in several directions, like a kaleidoscopic of silver and transparency floating in clouds above them. It is mesmerizing, like a moment they could both capture together and perhaps remansince with the memories they share. In another life, it would be tempting if they weren’t here for business but for pleasure. Or in another life where they weren’t forced to walk similar paths of thievery and Atsumu wasn’t a complete asshole. Or Kiyoomi didn’t sew gloves to his hands as the only confidant he could maintain to seal a boundary between him and the absolutely fucked-up universe. 

“The boats are sailin’” Atsumu says, “at least that’s what the artist claimed.” 

Kiyoomi peers at Atsumu, who’s still glancing upward towards the ceiling, and in the moment that’s bound to slip away, he catches falling glass from the boat prancing along the gold of his eyes. He’s like a kid at the movie theater, eagerly waiting for his favorite movie to begin. “Where did you learn that from?” 

“Let's jus’ say, I did my research Omi-kun. Is it wrong for a man to enjoy the fine arts?” Atsumu challenges as they walk underneath the suspended boats in the air. 

“For you, yes.” 

Atsumu shakes his head, but doesn’t reply, for once Kiyoomi won. For now. “Code green. Checking in, how’s it going?” a quick buzz as Meian’s voice cracks through the earpiece. 

Kiyoomi hastily inspects the area, most people have begun to settle, and he replies: “It’s going smoothly, we’re about to find our seats at the dining hall.” 

The dining hall is extravagant, over fifty round tables in the large room, right across the dance floor, is the bathroom and off limits elevators closed from the public. He remembers Inunaki mentioning that it would be their only escape route in the direction of where the necklace is held, according to the blueprints they had reviewed. “Good. it’s almost time.” and the line goes dead. 

Kiyoomi is the first to sit down, as Atsumu follows. Seated with a group of strangers, somehow Atsumu is familiar to him, and he is the most unknown person sitting at this table to Kiyoomi for the past few days. They haven’t grown closer, a heist like this should bring people together, a group of adults who are bonded together by a goal hanging over their heads. He wanted to settle down, he recalled Atsumu mentioning. Was he planning on retiring, pursuing a family? He couldn’t imagine Atsumu performing domesticated activities like going grocery shopping, cooking with his future significant other, a pretty wife maybe, with sparkling brown eyes and wavy, soft hair and she’d be all smiles and happy gazes at Atsumu whenever they were around each other. Kiyoomi felt a throb as hunger chiseled away at the pit in his stomach, he was probably just hungry. 

Why did Atsumu accept this job?

A light tickle of a breeze whispers at his ear, “lost in thought?” Atsumu backs up, just a little. Kiyoomi stops pondering on a thought that’s a waste of time and wrinkles his nose in disdain. 

“You’re too close.” And reaches for his glass of water, taking a sip. It slides through the back of his throat, and he can tell Atsumu is drinking him in, an appalling idea. However, possible. 

“And yer being too uptight, come on now Omi-kun, it’s a party.” he says, resting his elbows on the tables gathering the expensive cloth along with him. Did he have an ounce of professionalism inside of him? Kiyoomi sighs.

Inunaki beeps in, and coos, “lover’s quarrel?” 

Kiyoomi grimaces, Atsumu flashes him a carefree grin. “Do me a favor and don’t call me again unless you have something useless to say.” Inunaki laughs loudly, very loudly through the earpiece. He had to get through the night, without any hiccups, or else Atsumu and the rest of the team, but mostly Atsumu would be the death of him. 

*

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu says over the low music, O Fortuna being played by an orchestra of musicians in a corner of the hall. If he listens long enough he can fade away with the melody, vibrating through his ribcage. “Where’s Bokkun and Shouyou-kun?” 

Kiyoomi looks around, the room is large, the two of them could be anywhere. He spots Bokuto shaking up a drink for a guest at the bar, appearing sociable and blending with the staff. In the quick glint of the light, he can see the matching earpiece they all wear. Hinata charismatically takes an order for another table a few feet away, bouncing happily as he wakes away. If Kiyoomi didn’t know any better he would’ve guessed that they were the catering company hired for the event. 

Kiyoomi faces back to Atsumu and their table, “They’re in position.” 

“Thomas, how much longer until the speech?” Kiyoomi whispers, and the static feedback is murky, before Thomas comes through. He was going to have to give Inunaki shit about some requirements when this whole heist is over. 

“Just about now.” And he’s right, the head representative of the museum begins her speech. He spots Bokuto dissolving into the shadows behind the bar, and Meian must’ve given the signal. Kiyoomi focuses on the stage, and claps when the speech is over like the rest of the room. Atsumu wears a fake smile, perfectly gullible and expertly worn. He wonders if he’s ever done anything like this before. He hasn’t mentioned his brother since their lunch at the diner a few days ago, but he wonders if he was similar to Atsumu. Coy, maybe sly and enjoyed bringing out the worst in others, but easily swayed by the smallest things, like a burger and fries, or sparring. 

Inunaki’s voice returns to fill inside his head, again. “Sakusa, the new shift of security guards is happening soon, you better get a move on.” 

“Kageyama-kun?” he hears someone shout, not very thunderous thankfully, and the lights have been turned back on. He finds Hinata near the entrance conversing mildly angrily, gesticulating past to the part where Kiyoomi could interpret what was saying. 

In front of Hinata is a taller boy, ebony hair cascading across his face, like a ghost in the shadows, well fitted into a grey suit and he seems to be talking to him in a lesser tone of voice compared to Hinata. They don’t have time for this, and Kiyoomi scrutinizes to get a view from across the hall, an eagle branded on the inside of his wrist watch. “Do you see this? What the fuck are the Adlers doing here?” Kiyoomi questions, and he can see Atsumu mimic the similar confusion, informality judging from the hunch of his shoulders. 

“What do we do Meian-san?” He can hear Inunaki ask Meian in the distance of the earpiece, only slightly panicked. He didn’t remember any of the members being invited or written on the guest list that Akaashi had given them. 

“Thomas will handle it.” Meian orders, did he predict this? “They’re not a threat. Horushimi-kun confided in me earlier today. They will not disturb us.” 

Atsumu takes a sip of his wine, legs crossed like he’s a movie star and the camera is constantly rolling on him. He holds it thinly between his fingers, running his hands through his hair. Probably wondering about what he’s going to eat, or what he plans on doing to annoy Kiyoomi in every way possible. It’s predestined in the cruel fate God has aligned them with. 

There are a few bruises on his knuckles, late nights where Kiyoomi has been tragically given the opportunity to spy Atsumu in the gym at three in the morning when Kiyoomi cannot sleep, and Atsumu is forced to stay awake. Pounding away at the punching bag in the middle of the gym. Sometimes, he would hold the bag and wait for it to stop swerving and cling to it. Maybe he cries, or maybe he thinks about the two-hundred ways you can pickpocket a tourist at Shiretoko National Park. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

Atsumu blinks, still grasping at the glass of wine, he almost looks as if he’s been awoken by a hundred year slumber and endless wondering. “Oh, yer still worried about me Omi-kun? Don’t worry, this isn’t my first time.” Kiyoomi assumes he’s referring to his first heist and he won’t doubt that statement, he’s weirdly relaxed too, like nothing could make him worry about the heist going awry. 

He avoids the question, as Atsumu did as well. “Hinata’s about to make the distraction.” He taps his earpiece, bringing Inunaki’s voice to fill his head. “Is everything still clear?” 

“Yeah, the director is coming his way. Bokuto should be there.” And Hinata brings out the tray of overflowing plates, wobbling close to the director, a faceless pawn in the heist, there’s a crash and Hinata comes wobbling to the floor. A large stain on the director’s suit, and he can see the keycard glistening under the light as Bokuto walks by, he makes the move. He can hear Atsumu clicking at his teeth, while maintaining some flair and grace in the way he picks at his nails. 

“It’s done.” Hinata’s voice squeaks nervously through the earpiece and he can hear a heavy sigh from Atsumu. The first part of their plan was a success. 

*

Kiyoomi remembers his panic attack, the first one in his apartment, when he was eighteen, and had just completed an errand for Meian. Perhaps it was the night he remembered his family. There weren’t a lot of memories compiled of them, he did have a mother, a good father who worked until the early morning. If he wasn’t so stubborn, he might consider the team his family, but back then he worked alone. 

He remembered the way his skin felt on fire, like he wanted to seize the ground and throw dirt over his body and become blanketed with a grave that had a pretty headstone labeled ‘gone too soon’, but the truth is that no one would care. Meian might care, he always did. For whatever reason. Kiyoomi hated the way everyone enjoyed crawling into his life without permission, entering his home, breaking into it per a new revelation and recent events. He keeps to himself, and the direction of the earth, the universe moves in juxtaposition against him. 

What will you become, he asks himself. When you're old and tired and have lived a short, miserable life, a house made of false gold and shattered windows from the amount of times you’ve punched the glass. Atsumu stands in the mist, ah, is he the answer? Is he the one you’ve been looking for? 

*

By now, the hall has been cleared a bit, and the crowd has been pushed to the main floor as Atsumu leads him Kiyoomi searches for the nearest exit, compartmentalizing the information, it helps him think, collect his thoughts. It’s odd, how Atsumu doesn’t stare or give him a funny look while this happens, and the feeling runs stale in his stomach, was it the half a glass of wine rippling a high tide against the walls of his gut. Guests have relaxed, standing around and conversing as Atsumu drifts away to chat. Kiyoomi leans against a pillar, swishing around his plastic cup of cold water. 

Droplets of water sweat against the fabric of his gloves, Kiyoomi himself drifts away, there’s a lull in his earpiece, no further directions from Meian, and hasn’t been able to find Bokuto or Hinata since the distraction was made. Gloves stay on. Breathe. If you continue to breathe, then air will continue to circulate through your lungs and perhaps Atsumu will stop gazing through you from the corner of his eyes when he speaks with other guests. He’s mastered the forged smile, it would appear genuine to anyone else, but Kiyoomi right away knows it’s forced. 

An achingly lovely melody begins to play, as the violinists and the rest of the orchestra starts. Atsumu approaches him, as couples form together and take the floor. “Starin’ at me were you?”

“Nope.” Kiyoomi’s eyes shift across the table, to where security is most present. It would take too long to go any other way. 

Atsumu runs his hand in his hair, and Akaashi buzzes in through the small earpiece, 

“Atsumu-san please do not mess up your hair, it took way too long.” 

“Both of you, it’s time.” Meian instructs. 

“Yeah yeah, heading out to the dance floor now,” he rolls his eyes and Kiyoomi can hear Akaashi sigh heavily through the intercom. He most definitely didn’t not sign up for this. 

“Sakusa, is everything in check?” Meian asks, and Kiyoomi taps his earpiece:

“Everything is going to according to plan.” Kiyoomi affirms, and Atsumu stands, a hand extended out, Kiyoomi does not want to do this. But Atsumu enjoyed mercilessly crushing his soul with his hands, unsanitary and unforgiven. But those are lost memories aren’t they? 

“Don’t wanna waste those dance lessons right?” Atsumu asks. 

*

He can hear Inunaki’s chewing through the earpiece, Inunaki, please stop eating while your microphone is on. Meian eventually says. And the chewing stops. Sort of. 

Kiyoomi takes his hand, and he pulls him into the dance floor, even through the set of gloves he wears, he can feel the heat of Atsumu’s hands searing through his palm. They begin to dance, as most couples have begun to take places around the dance floor, Atsumu yanks Kiyoomi’s waist and pulls him close. Kiyoomi glares. Atsumu pays no attention. 

“Likin’ the party?” Kiyoomi lifts his lip in a deafening curl, he probably looks stupid.

“Stop talking.” And he places his hand on his shoulder, his finger caressing the seam of his suit, blue and setting off the hazelnut in his eyes, or maybe it clashes and he looks repulsive. But judging from the stares and wandering looks Atsumu is getting, people think otherwise “Can you stop attracting so much attention.” Kiyoomi seethes, “You are doing to get us caught.”

Atsumu offers a hooded smile, devilish and opportunistic. And Kiyoomi despises it even more. “Jealous much? If anything, yer gonna be the one to break our cover, we’re dancin’ not doing the robot,” Kiyoomi stares, hoping it’ll burn holes in his forehead. And light his hair on fire. That would be terrible for Meian but eventful for Kiyoomi. 

“And I thought you said no talking.” Atsumu dares to add. Their feet move in synchronization, even though Kiyoomi tripped on his feet a few times and Atsumu didn’t know where to put his hand on the other person, they weren’t terribly looking, dancing together. 

He knows Inunaki is enjoying this, watching it from behind the security footage he hacked and chomping on a large popcorn with the rest of the team that wasn’t in the room while Kiyoomi suffers. “I did.” And they move around the dance room, like air, like the world was but light flirtations and Atsumu dazzled his way through the universe. 

“I don’t hate you.” Atsumu reports. With the emotional barring of a meteorologist on the front news of a weather channel forecast. 

“I do, hate you.” Kiyoomi clarifies. And Atsumu grins, he’s up to no good, he grips him on the waist, and holds his hand up on his palm. This wasn’t part of the plan. The music grows louder but the white noises shrills silently. Atsumu is staring. Staring into his soul, possibly to take it in his hands and chuck it halfway across the dance floor. 

Kiyoomi’s glove begins to slide as Atusmu caresses the gem where it meets the flesh of his palm, where boundaries are meant to be crossed. Where friends are not friends, but two people who are enemies but not enemies but two normal people thrown into the world of thieves and glory. His breath hitches, and Atsumu slowly lifts his glove, fingers spreading across the lines that become canals, a boat that the underworld sits beneath. You ride along the boat, Atsumu laughs. You run away, and now, where do you go next? 

“Miya. What are you doing?” His hiss comes out weak, the soft piano sounds grow, and they waltz around in an indefinite circle. He’s never said his name, never let it escape his mouth in such urgency and desperation. 

And then, like the musician was being held by string, the puppeteer collapses and the music stops. And Atsumu retracts away, fast. The lingering touch throws butterflies and moths in Kiyoomi’s stomach and through his mouth. 

“Sorry.” 

Atsumu is unreadable as he can be sometimes. But perhaps it’s because Kiyoomi doesn’t know him as well as he thought. “Hurry up you two, the window of opportunity is growing thin.” Inunaki informs them, there was no security guard at the end of the hall, marking where guests could not cross. 

“Let’s go.” Atsumu says, looking away from Kiyoomi— to him, the past five minutes never happened. And Kiyoomi silently follows. He’s never dancing again. 

*

Through the thick of the crowd, Kiyoomi struggles to slip away. He catches the shine of expensive jewelry (Balcons du Guadalquivir bangle bracelet) on the wrists of guests and he’s tempted, but he has no spotter or distraction and now wasn’t the time. He begins to lose sight of Atsumu and he picks up the pace. A minute, is how long they had before the new shift of security guards would arrive. He turns the corner, to where the bathroom was, Atsumu makes a peace sign to the cameras, and a sharp “Got it.” from Inunaki as he assumably hacks into the security cameras, “You have five minutes before they turn back on and the footage is wiped.” 

“Thanks,” Atsumu replies and he can hear the triumphant grin from Inunaki on the earpiece. And at the front of the elevator stands Hinata, pacing back and forth, his white button-up stained from the distraction. Kiyoomi frowns, where was Bokuto? He should be waiting alongside Hinata, and Hinata frantically shrugs, keycard in hand. 

“I lost him after the distraction was made. He won’t answer too.” Hinata stumbles, and Kiyoomi sighs deeply, they didn’t have time for this. If they stalled any longer, they would get caught. 

Atsumu snatches the keycard and swipes it through the machine, as card reader as it beeps green and the elevator opens. “He’ll jus’ havta catch up later. Keep on tryin’ to communicate with him, there might be somethin’ wrong with his earpiece.” He calmly instructs. Hinata vehemently nods, and fiddles with this earpiece. 

He turns over to Kiyoomi, “It’s the fourth floor.” Kiyoomi provides. Atsumu curls his lips, and jams the painted button labeled ‘4’. 

“I knew that.” 

The elevator begins to move, and Kiyoomi cramps himself in the corner, away from Atsumu, hopeful to gather his thoughts, some he wishes to throw out of the elevator. Kiyoomi tugs on his gloves, a quick reassurance. And silence. As the elevator beeps, and they reach the third floor before the elevator shakes and stops. Hinata looks confused, and since he’s closest to the buttons, and pushes the fourth floor again. 

He makes gradual eye contact with Atsumu, as he pulls something from the holster that Kiyoomi had no clue existed, a dual set of knives, and Kiyoomi stares at him deadpanned. “We’re not killing them.” he utters. 

He twirls the set of switch blades on his finger and catches in a fistful. “Who said we’re gonna kill em’? We're jus'gonna give them a run for their money.”

*

Hinata claps a little, “this is just like a heist movie!” 

The elevator door rumbles open, “Let me know if you need any help.” Atsumu winks at him and Kiyoomi readies. He wants to snap back at him, but Atsumu would only cackle like a witch and smile with his horrific, symmetrical teeth. 

“Hey, this level is off-limits for guests!” The first security guard shouts and stars dashing in their direction. 

“Hold the elevator for us!” Kiyoomi calls Hinata as he follows Atsumu who charges at the second security guard. Atsumu throws the first knife at the shoulder of the first guard, as it catches the fabric of his shirt and pins them to the column pillar. Kiyoomi throws a kick to the first guard who calls them out, as he falls to the ground. The third guard runs in their direction, walkie talkie in hand as Atsumu throws his second knife at his palm and the guard yells out in pain, falling in pain as Kiyoomi fastly kicks him swiftly in the gut. 

Atsumu walks over and plucks his knife from the third one and spins to Kiyoomi, “no one got hurt right?” 

“There are more coming!” Hinata warns them, and they make a run for it. Atsumu runs ahead of him, and the gust of their movement causes the back of his suit jacket to flip and he catches the rest of his holster, lined up with knifes, a gun underneath his shoulder (Glock 26, 9MM) 

Atsumu reaches inside the elevator first as Hinata slams the button and it starts to slim, goddammit. Kiyoomi bites his upper lip and he slides into the elevator rocketing against the sleek floor as the elevator closes directly behind him. His adrenaline is rocket high, a small headache pounding against his skull. 

“Need a hand?” Atsumu extends a hand, and for a split second they’re soaring across the dance floor, caressing the palm beneath his gloves. But they’re planted and snug on his fingers and he takes the hand as he lifts himself up. 

The elevator beeps, they’re on the fourth floor finally. Kiyoomi braces for the company of more security guards, they must’ve called for backup by now, and the door slides back and Atsumu readies beside him. Hinata looks like he’s going to barf. And Bokuto spins forward, a questionable grin marked on his face, his wooden bat balanced behind his shoulder as he waves, like they were seeing each other for the first time in years. 

“What took everyone so long?” 

*

There’s a few more security guards on the ground knocked out, more than Kiyoomi and Atsumu encounter as he steps over them, careful not to stir any awake accidentally. “Where the fuck have you been?” Kiyoomi asks. 

Bokutoo turns sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck, “Sorry, I got a little lost. And I couldn’t find Shouyou-kun.” 

Atsumu pats his back comfortingly, and adds, “it’s alright, les’ just go, we have three minutes before the security camera turns back on.” Hinata puts on a tough face, but Kiyoomi knows that he’s scared shitless, this is his first heist after all. He’s used to being the errand boy and helping Bokuto in smaller tasks. None of them could mess up now, they’ve made it this far. A crackle in his earpiece as he winces and Meian starts: 

“What’s the status?” 

Atsumu taps the earpiece, and reports back, “We got in a lil conflict with a few guards, but it’s good now. We’ve made it to the necklace, any new orders Meian?”

A heavy inhale from the other line, “Get the necklace and escape quickly that’s your final task.” The line goes dead and Atsumu chuckles, as if he’s sharing an inside joke with himself. 

“You heard him, get the necklace.” Bokuto cheers, and then makes ‘O’ shape with his mouth, because he remembers that they’re still inside the museum and guards could be creeping up anytime soon. 

Hinata makes the first move towards the necklace, and there’s no glass cover, no invisible laser required to limboed under, it’s odd how easy it was. Inunaki must’ve hacked into the security system and busted down all tactics used to keep them away. There has to be a catch, there’s no way they could make their escape as easy as this. “Wait.” Atsumu firmly calls out, before Hinata can touch the necklace and Kiyoomi inches closer. 

What” Hinata asks, frowning deeply but removes his hand from coming any closer. Atsumu ducks at all angled of the pedestal where the necklace hung and shook his head, 

“We’ve got a problem, there’s a sensor on the necklace.” Atsumu announces. 

Bokuto leans in, “You mean a sensor like at the store, what they clip onto clothes?”

Kiyoomi knew this wasn’t a good sign, they only had approximately two minutes and forty seconds left. “He means that once the necklace is lifted, it will alert the whole museum. Unless we exchange it with an object of the exact weight.” Atsumu smiles grimly, so he was right. They didn’t have time for this, “Bokuto, did you find a way out?” 

Bokuto smiles, and points up to the ceiling. “This is how I got in, the ceiling material is soundproof so it’s perfect.” 

The light switch in Atsumu’s brain powers on and he turns to Kiyoomi, “Omi-kun, give me yer gloves.”

Kiyoomi steps back, “Why?” 

“It’s the only object in the room that will weigh around the same as the necklace, it’s our best bet.” 

“No way.” If he were to remove the gloves, the fabricated walls between Kiyoomi and the universe would be flooded open, dirt could easily seep into his fingers and drive him mad. Atsumu knows all of this information, yet why is he asking Kiyoomi anyway? 

“Come on Omi-san, it won’t be terrible, if we hurry there are probably extra gloves in the truck!” Hinata pleads. Kiyoomi clenches his fist, Atsumu wears no smirk, and his tangled blond curls fall over his face, a renaissance painting captured in the midst of the room. 

Slowly, but surely he slides them off his gloves and hands them to Atsumu and he approaches the necklace, and meticulously swipes the necklace, which appears light in his left hand and the gloves hover the pedestal. Kiyoomi prepares for the whine of sirens, indicating that they’ve been caught. But no noises erupt from the museum, they were safe. 

Bokuto has tied a rope to the ceiling, as Hinata and Bokuto have already made it up there and Atsumu expertly climbs he’s probably made this escape countless times in his life. And Kiyoomi grips on the rope and begins to climb after him, a hand reaches to him and it’s Atsumu, “needa hand?” and he shakes his head and climbs the rest of the way. Bokuto gathers the rope and hastily places the block of ceiling into place. Hinata gripes the necklace in a satchel around his back, they had the necklace; the next step might be the hardest-- escaping. 

*

“Bokkun, yer feet are in my face.” Atsumu says. Hinata leads, Bokuto behind him and Atsumu follows closely. Kiyoomi has been unfortunate enough to be cast last in the string of everyone ahead of him. 

“Sorry Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto says. 

“Does anyone know where the hell we are?” Atsumu asks nobody in particular. 

Inunaki emerges in the buzzing noise of all their earpieces, “All of you should be at the nearing the main level. The kitchen is empty, from what I’m getting right now, there’s an exit out back.” 

Kiyoomi almost hits his head on the ceiling, the space feels like it’s growing tighter and tighter, grasping at Kiyoomi’s throat in a choke hold. “Alright there Omi-kun?” Atsumu twists his head over his shoulder to peer at him. 

“Mind your own business Miya.” his name tastes like metal on his tongue, not as intense as earlier, now it hastens through his lips without burning passion or urgency, but annoyance. 

They continue to crawl through the ceiling, he finds Atsumu keeping an eye on the satchel strapped to Hinata’s back. “You’re close,” Inunaki reports. And Kiyoomi looks below, the ceiling below them is near see through, they must be over hundred feet in the air. Kiyoomi’s never had a fear of heights before, but now in the swooping moments of escape, he feels he could crash through the ceiling and collapse. 

Not now, he thinks and pushes on. His palm meets the blade of the ceiling once again, grime meets his fingertips and he wishes for his gloves, especially now. “The kitchen is right below.” And Bokuto puts a finger to his lips as he peeks through the ceiling, and nods. Atsumu silently hands him his knife. As he passes it to Bokuto, Kiyoomi notices the engraved initials of ‘M.A’ and ‘M.O’ on each side. 

Miya Atsumu. The other initial was a mystery. 

Bokuto smashes his bat through the glass and they share equal glares and he shrugs and dives through the empty ceiling space. When it’s Kiyoomi’s turn, he falls through and lands on his feet, a twinge in his ankle. They were so close, and then the room turned dark, as the sirens started to whine and the alarm in the museum went off. 

“Shit, they’re about to go under lock down.” Atsumu cusses. 

“We’re right outside, take the exit door straight to your left.” Inunaki commands and the white door ahead of them is nearby. They make a run for it, Kiyoomi is running, to where? Is it like his dreams where his lungs soar above the sky and Atsumu plays a different sport with his organs and the world on his chest catches fire. 

Kiyoomi falls back against the door as Bokuto swings it open and the truck is outside, parked in the back of the museum. The doors swing open and Kiyoomi almost falls to his feet. Death may come to him in the form of Miya Atsumu, but right now, he appears to him a renaissance painting, a fallen knight sitting on black beauty. “I got you Omi-kun.” 

“Do you have the necklace?” Meian asks from the driver’s seat, his eyes serious through the peephole separating the front seat and the rest of the bus. 

Hinata carefully lifts up the necklace from inside satchel once attached to his back, laying in his lap. He holds it up, ruby red and pure in the hands of an angel but surrounded by darkness. Everyone was in awe, it was the real necklace, costing more than a million yen, perhaps cheaper in Meian’s days. Even Akaashi looks shell-shocked, stunned by it’s radiance. 

They really did it. 

  
*

The truck is chatterful, and Kiyoomi has grown to block out the noises, holding tight the nakedness of his hands, revealing the ugly sides of them. He didn’t even have bandages to cover them in the time being. Atsumu finds a seat across him, head down, his suit is now rumpled and there is not a fallen knight captured in a painting of the old times but a boy who has grown into a man, perhaps too fast. Atsumu looks normal, vulnerable even in the small crowd of their team celebrating. 

Atsumu breaks the silence between him, it’s always Atsumu, Kiyoomi notes. “Here you go.” He unfists his hands, and Kiyoomi holds his palm out and lets it drop into his hands. Black, linen gloves, they seem to be his size as well. “I brought an extra pair incase, you know, we had some technical difficulties.” 

“Sorry about that!” Inunaki says callously, shrugging. You should be fired, Kiyoomi wants to reply. 

Kiyoomi takes them, but doesn’t wear them immediately. They hand between the ribs of his fingers and Kiyoomi cannot bring himself to meet Atsumu’s eyes. Gold in the gloomiest nights, shadows underneath them and he’d still manage to look perfect. Or something along the lines of presentable. “Thanks.” 

Smiling, Atsumu does not remark on the sincerity in his voice, but instead leans back, and a soft look twines around the corners of his mouth. Take a picture of it, the back of Kiyoomi’s mind whispers. While it lasts. “We did it.” he finally says. 

Kiyoomi hums, “we did it.” He repeats, 

“Let’s go home Omi-kun.” 

Kiyoomi smiles a little, hiding it away from Atsumu. But that’s the problem, he can’t hide anything from him. “Sounds like a good idea.” 

*

You would expect that after the heist, things would change, they would move into a fancier apartment, or their lives would change forever and become soaked in lush and glory. You should expect that after Atsumu reveals that he may have stolen more than the necklace but an assortment of ancient artifacts. When Kiyoomi wanted to ask, he was too scared to not only ask, but be given the answer. So it remains a mystery, but that’s not terrible because Miya Atsumu is a man full of mystique and pearly white teeth. For the most part things are normal, Hinata buys the Ramen shop downstairs and uses the money that Atsumu gave to him, no, forced into his hands to renovate. Bokuto spends more time with Akaashi, who’s almost a mystery as the rest of them, and it’s not a problem, because that’s how they all work together so well. 

And Atsumu, after the night of the heist he doesn’t flee or settle down right away. He swings by the shop sometimes, plays Mario Kart on Bokuto’s new Nintendo switch a few nights in a row. Runs a few errands for Meian, Kiyoomi’s not sure if Atsumu works for him, he doesn’t know much of their past. Atsumu does visit that diner more often and even takes Kiyoomi along with him for whatever reason. Inunaki buys a new computer system and continues to hack every security system in Japan and Thomas stays by his side with an endearing look on his face. Or maybe it’s the face of murder, it’s hard to distungish between these days. 

Meian rents the rooftop of their apartment complex a week later, and invites them all to a post-heist celebration. Everyone comes, even Barnes who stays by Meian’s side and speaks to Atsumu with the familiar tone like Meian does. When he reaches Kiyoomi a half hour into the party, he keeps his distance, and gives him a curt smile. “Great job.” 

Bokuto runs around with Akaashi who takes interest in the flowerbed of wisteria. Hinata, with the help of the shop owner from the ramen shop, they set up an assortment of refreshments, as well as alcohol. Kiyoomi finds comfort in leaning against the glass railing lining the rooftop, it’s tall enough that he won’t have to think twice about plummeting to his death. “Sakusa.” Meian’s voice creeps up behind him. 

“Meian-san.” Kiyoomi addresses, and mimic’s his position against the railing. Meian fiddles with the ruby necklace, pulsing red at his throat. 

Kiyoomi lazily gestures to it, “That necklace, it must really mean something to you. To go through such great lengths just for an expensive piece of jewelry.” 

Meian chuckles, running his fingers through the golden chain. “It was my wife’s, it meant a great deal to her. I have no idea how it ended up at the museum.” His wifes? Kiyoomi leans back, huh, that’s how important to him. He doesn’t ask if his wife was alive, that was rhetorical. 

“Is that so? Then tell me, why did you ask Atsumu to come?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You knew the team could’ve been perfectly capable of handling the heist without him, so why? Why did you ask him to come?” 

Meian only takes a sip from his cup of whiskey (Togouchi Premium), and smiles again. “There he comes,” And Atsumu starts to advance towards them, “Good job again.” and he dips his head, and Atsumu throws a lazy grin at Meian when they cross paths. 

Kiyoomi would never find out their past, but there is a slim chance that it may be revealed to him one day, maybe tonight, or tomorrow, or in a week, or in ten years. He wouldn’t mind waiting. 

*

“Heya stranger.” He’s said that before, when they first met, he doesn’t know why, it’s probably obvious but Kiyoomi relentlessly despises every word exiting his mouth that’s attuned in the direction of him. 

“Miya, I see you’re enjoying yourself.” He says, as Atsumu hands him a bottle of Asahi beer, and Kiyoomi accepts it. Weirdly. 

“How can I not? We deserve to celebrate, have I ever told you to liven up a bit? Yer lookin’ like a lil’ grim.” Atsumu pokes at his cheek and Kiyoomi swipes at his finger. 

“Do you ever stop talking?” 

Atsumu laughs, the fallen knight with blonde, tousled hair rises, and his laugh is so clear that Kiyoomi can see the future and he closes his eyes. “Now, Omi-kun, you already know the answer to that.” and then he adds, “My brother, Osamu, he wants to meet you.” 

“Does he?” 

“Yeah, would you come with me one day? He works at an Onigiri shop.” 

“Sure.” 

“Yer the best Omi-kun.” 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, not taking a sip of his beer. “So, what are your plans after tonight? You technically don’t work for Meian-san, are you settling down like you said you wanted to?” 

Atsumu huffs, taking a slow sip and rests his elbows on the railing, allowing him to face Kiyoomi. “I can’t retire now, so I suppose I’ll stick around and annoy you for a little while longer.” He gives a playful wink, inching closer than before. 

Kiyoomi turns away, “great.” and when he faces the other direction again, Atsumu is closer than ever. Does he stop breathing, does he rest his hand on his jaw, feeling the slightest stubble throw the fabric of his gloves. Atsumu glows in the hue of the sunset facing Ebisu’s finest conman, and Atsumu’s finger curls underneath Kiyoomi’s chin. He looks exhilarating, strangely, under the hypnotism of the sun and rolling hills and horizon hurling across his back. Atsumu is-well, what is he? 

Was he about to kiss him? 

Kiyoomi closes his eyes again, and then feels the slight part in distance so he opens them, Atsumu grins cheekily, holding up Kiyoomi’s wrist watch. And he remembers, he remembers the past, their encounter in his apartment. It almost felt like yesterday when they first met, in the rain, and officially for the first time. “An open book are you Omi-kun.” He grins, tearing through the walls of everything Kiyoomi stands for. “This’ll never get old.”

He shakes his head, stepping just a bit closer, “You should know Miya, that I’m full of surprises.” The engraving’s ‘M.O’ marked on the knife he proudly wields. Kiyoomi feels like there’s a rush in his lungs, in his heart, even when Miya Atsumu stares at him with the same fascination when they first met. It will never get old. 

It will never get old.

*

When Kiyoomi is thirteen years old, he steals a pretty ring from the nice lady at the coffee shop. After that, he hates the feeling of robbing a prized possession, it’s like stealing air, or when God takes the breath away from the weak on their deathbed. But then he learns to withstand the urge to throw up, and the repulsive taste that grows at the bottom of his throat. 

When Kiyoomi is older, he doesn’t know what to make of the world, it’s a scary place, with scary people and even scarier rules. But here’s the catch, Kiyoomi lives his life to the fullest without regrets. He meets new people, and loses those who were once close to him. It’s the cycle of life in flesh form, walking on the streets that riles him up. But now he accepts him. 

You begin to accept the way of life. And move forward one step at a time. You burn memories, scorching the tip of your tongue and the back of your mind and in replacement create new memories. You begin to walk in the light, and when you find yourself clawing inside your throat, where the misery begins to blossom, maybe a chariot aboarding a body who walks both a path of darkness and full-fledged life will save you. Or you might save yourself. 

A boy, made of gold, wears a crown and leads you astray. Where you may ask, does he take you? 

He finally takes you home.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! If you have made it to the bitter ends of this fic, I thank you. Honestly, I wrote this fic in a fever dream about 99% of the time and don't know what to make of it. my unextensive knowlege during the last few weeks reading about heists may be minimal so I apolgize if there are some inaccuraries.... pay no attention to them please. 
> 
> Honestly this fic would've never happened without all my friends, I adore you, and ty for all the motivation you've given me during past two weeks. Espcially to Melly... oh dear melly.. thank you for letting me bombard your dms 24/7 with snippets... I don't know what I would do without you.. 
> 
> I made a [carrd](https://sakuatsuheistfic.carrd.co/) that explains in depth, the roles, inspiration and references to this fic, please read it if you will!! 
> 
> follow me on [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/atsuhinass__) if you would like, for more updates and let's chat about sakuatsu! 
> 
> lastly, if you enjoyed this fic, comments and kudos are appreciated, busting down my walls, holding me at gunpoint is appreciated as well. Any sort of love really keeps my writing!


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